Friday, January 23, 2015

The Windless 4 a.m.

Her husband was now one, keeping silent company with all the others. Urgency is almost always an impediment but we do what we can. One insists on playing the forbidden instrument and only after putting it down - which surrender may take lifetimes - does a music arrive saying play this instead. Heretofore hidden? So it seems when January is coldest, in the windless 4 a.m., in the one-or-two-stars only. One takes note of the utter absence of interior pliability signified by frozen maples, one surrenders altogether the possibility of insight. She is there but unreadable, as it was probably meant to be. Would you write a last letter? Would you lean one more time out in the sunlight just so? Don't forget the house frame when you move. He wrote and wrote and it was all useless, it was all deadfall he couldn't wait to burn, and so he did, and went walking then in a different - in a surprising - direction.

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